


A Thousand Yellow Daisies

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Inspired by Gilmore Girls. Eames proposes to Arthur in an unromantic way. Arthur turns him down. He believes that a proposal should be well thought out, that there should be "a thousand yellow daises" and romance. The next day Arthur comes to the warehouse, where a thousand yellow daises and Eames await him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Yellow Daisies

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I didn't wanna do it! I didn't wanna do it!  
> Notes: Set post movie by several years, no spoilers.

  
  
"That's it? Is that the best you can come up with?"  
  
Eames looks up from sniffing a pair of hideous plaid socks, which he then tosses at their television after making a disgusted face. "And that's your answer to a yes or no question, darling?"  
  
Arthur huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't you 'darling' me, Jack--we've been together . . . what, three years, now?"  
  
"Three years, four months, fifteen days," Eames nods, and begins rooting around under their bed. Presumably for any pair of socks that isn't ready to walk itself to the laundry hamper. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.  
  
"So all this time together, and the best way you come up with to propose is,  _by the way, love, think we should find a justice of the peace one of these days--make honest blokes of each other and get married?_ "  
  
Eames snorts, tossing yet another pair of unfortunate socks at the television. "First of all, I don't sound like I just stepped out of East Enders. Second I have never in my life used the word 'bloke.'"  
  
Arthur glares. "That's the only thing you took away from what I just said?"  
  
"Well--what d'you want me to say, love? I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I'm pretty sure you feel the same way . . . it can't be said plainer than that." Eames throws up his hands and pads--barefoot and nude--to their bathroom. After a few moments, Arthur hears the whine of Eames' shaver. For all the good it'll do. Eames has five o'clock shadow before noon, most days.  
  
He sighs again, sitting on their bed. "Well, maybe I don't  _want_  plain, Mr. Eames. Maybe I want romance, and tradition, and . . . a thousand yellow daisies. . . ." he mutters to himself, then laughs a little.  _I watch way too much_ Gilmore Girls, he thinks wryly.  
  
Then he gets up again, going to their bureau. He fetches a pair of his own socks and makes his way to the bathroom. Eames is mugging in the mirror as he shaves, and Arthur feels a powerful, familiar welling sensation in his chest. It's almost like he can't quite breathe or like his heart is skipping beats whilst trying to lodge itself in his throat.  
  
When Eames notices him staring, he blows Arthur a kiss, and Arthur smiles wistfully, waggling the socks.  
  
"Here, you can wear these. But this evening, we're doing laundry. I can smell your socks from here."  
  


*

  
  
Eames doesn't propose again the next day.  
  


*

  
  
Or the day after that.  
  


*

  
  
Or the day after  _that_.  
  


*

  
  
After a week, Arthur starts to worry.  
  
After two weeks, he tries to chalk the impromptu proposal up to Eames being Eames, master of the spur-of-the-moment-ideas-that-never-pan-out.  
  
He tries and fails, but manages to put it all out of his mind.  
  
But not really.  
  


*

  
  
Two weeks after the proposal-that-might-as-well-have-never-been, Arthur's on his way to Cobb's latest headquarters--a warehouse on the corner of Sperry and Van Buren--a large Americano in one hand, his briefcase in the other.  
  
He'd been up half the night waiting for Eames to come home . . . but he never had. Nor had he bothered answering his cellphone.  
  
Arthur'd slept so badly that he'd finally given up the ghost around five a.m. and decided to make his way to the warehouse early.  
  
This is the first time in nearly a year that he and Eames have slept apart.  
  
 _Assuming he was sleeping,_  Arthur thinks, gritting his teeth. When he trips and nearly drops the coffee, he tries to put this, too out of his mind. He's not imagining his boyfriend out getting into trouble or  _getting into trouble_. And he's certainly not imagining the very  _long_  talk he and Jack Eames are going to be having when he turns up.  
  
Whenever  _that_  is.  
  
As he unlocks the side entrance to the warehouse, another pang of worry goes through Arthur. It is, after all, entirely possible that his own kvetching about Eames's crappy-ass proposal had driven the other man away. Possibly into the arms of someone else.  
  
 _No. He isn't that faithless, or that shallow, but maybe I am. Whatever else his proposal was, it was sincere. He wouldn't suggest getting married, unless he really meant it . . . and then I blew him off because the proposal wasn't as romantic as I thought it should have been._  
  
 _I'm an idiot,_  Arthur tells himself, trudging up the two flights of stairs to the team's workspace.  
  
Halfway up the second flight, he can see the first swath of bright yellow.  
  
Two-thirds of the way up, he can make out what has to be a hell of a figment of his imagination: a workspace carpeted with daisies.  
  
At the top of the stairs, all he can do is gaze around him like a man in shock. The floor is, indeed, _carpeted_  in daisies. Daisies cover every table, every chair, every halfway flat piece of equipment.  
  
And in the center of it all, wearing a smashing tuxedo, his hair combed to perfection, his shoes shining like the top of the Chrysler building, is Eames.  
  
"Whuh--?" Arthur begins, looking around at the every daisy-covered surface in confusion. Eames prowls his way over. It's only when he's kissing distance from Arthur that he goes smoothly down on one knee and takes Arthur's hand.  
  
"Arthur, my dove," he says, his grey eyes solemn and intent. "I would be the luckiest man in all the world if you would do me the  _honor_  of becoming my husband."  
  
Arthur's mouth drops open and the coffee drops on the floor, puddling around his feet and Eames's knees, but Eames doesn't so much as look down. Despite the fact that the coffee is still scalding hot.  
  
"You'd be who in the what, now?" Arthur asks dazedly, looking around at the be-daisied room again. Everything inch of it is such a bright, uniform yellow, it almost hurts his eyes and it definitely takes his breath away.  
  
Eames brings Arthur's hand to his face and kisses the palm. When Arthur glances down again, Eames takes a small box out of his right pocket. Arthur can't make out the writing on the top of the box, but when Eames flicks it open, his breath catches.  
  
"Oh," he says reaching out hesitantly, wanting to but afraid, for some reason, to touch the most beautiful ruby cufflinks he's ever seen.  
  
"Will you marry me, Arthur Cohen?" Eames whispers, his gaze both intent and intense. Arthur can't look away, and wouldn't, even if he could.  
  
"Jack, I . . . of  _course_  I'll marry you," he says, like he should've said two weeks ago. Because the reality is, he can't and doesn't want to imagine a life spent with anyone else.  
  
Eames takes Arthur's right hand first, and undoes the cufflink, replacing it with the ruby one. He does the same for the left, as well, his gaze never leaving Arthur's.  
  
The old cufflinks go in Eames's pocket, then he's turning Arthur's hands in his own to admire the way the ruby cufflinks glint in the watery, dawn light.  
  
"Gorgeous," he murmurs. "The cufflinks aren't half bad, either."  
  
Arthur laughs, the backs of his eyes stinging suspiciously. "God, you're such an ass. Get up off the floor."  
  
Eames grins, standing up to pull Arthur into his arms for a long,  _long_  kiss. By the time it ends they're both hard, and breathing that way. Arthur's arms are wrapped around Eames's neck, Eames's arms wrapped around his waist.  
  
They both laugh almost drunkenly, Arthur ignoring the tears running down his face--hoping Eames will, too. But he doesn't. He kisses each and every tear away, and when they kiss again, his lips are salty.  
  
"I didn't mean for you to hear that daisy remark, you know." Arthur blushes, cupping Eames's face in his hands and brushing their noses together in a brief Eskimo-kiss.  
  
"I know, but  _you_ , of all people, should know I have ears like a bat." Eames chuckles huskily, swaying them a little to a waltz Arthur can almost hear. They stare into each others' eyes for a while before leaning in to kiss each other.  
  
"I love you, Future-Mister-Eames."  
  
Arthur sniffs, blinking back more tears. "Seconded, Future-Mister-Cohen."  
  
Eames pulls back to give Arthur a mock-glare. "'Seconded'? We've been together for three years, four months, and twenty-eight days, Arthur, and  _that's_  the best you can come up with?" he demands, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Arthur rolls his eyes, but his smile is tender and fond.  
  
"Shut up before I change my mind," he murmurs, and Eame's laugh rings out loud and deep, making a thousand daisies tremble.  
  
 _Take_ that, Gilmore Girls, Arthur thinks smugly, leaning in for another kiss.


End file.
